


ON THINGS THAT MATTER

by tethyse



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25111081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tethyse/pseuds/tethyse
Summary: It's crazy.It's like that stupid question they ask you. What if you die tomorrow and this is your last day, what're you going to do? Well. Well, well. Degenerate my ass, doctor. I want to live and let live. I want to bang on pots and doors and windows and tell all of the world to listen.Or see.





	ON THINGS THAT MATTER

**Author's Note:**

> hello, just testing stuff out so here is an old and pointless short from me

Basically, I am going blind.

Degenerate, what a word to say to a twenty two year old fuck all. It would've been comforting if it were prescription pills instead of glasses that were being adjusted notches higher than the last time. At least, there would be some dignity in the decline of my health. Not this helpless state. The doctor has suggested surgery with an air of forced concern because by then, he knew I couldn't.

True, but I also wouldn't.

Insert scenes from A Clockwork Orange of that eye thing on my beloved hero: Alex what size you got. Viddy well, my brother. Viddy well.

"Aye, fuck 'em straight," you tell me. "Doctor's jist tryna rob you raw with all that shit. You'd do fine."

It's the last of my concern, going blind. The doctor said there's ample time anyway. To correct it or savor every blink, I may have misheard him. Anyways--so as always, I burrow in my self absorbed ways.

"Ya prick," you punch me straight between my ribs and I try to hold it in but fail and choke on a laugh laced with smoke. "Facken' telling me that on my face? How high erya, kid? Just how 'igh? I shoulda throw you out."

But this is my home. All this dirt and grime and snot--they hold this home together for us to keep still.

Scratch that, _you_ are my home.

Every strand of greasy hair and crusty eyes and yellowed armpits of your shirts. Your crooked smile and uneven voice. Don't you think? And I meant it in a nice way, all of it. You absorb me as much as I absorb you. Osmosis, we are one even though we do not fuck at all.

Don't you think?

"You tell me wid yer bachelor's degree."

Anyway, I want to do something. Something _big_ before I lose my eyes. The big fucking bang, except in this case, we create before the explosion.

It's crazy. It's like that stupid question they ask you. What if you die tomorrow and this is your last day, what're you going to do? Well. Well, well. Degenerate my ass, doctor. I want to live and let live. I want to bang on pots and doors and windows and tell all of the world to listen. Or see.

I want to create.

Something.

"That theory would be the death of you," you murmur gravely. And I laugh the remnants of my choked lungs until it deflates in silence. You siphon it to yourself and I let you be.

"What would it be?"

Something.

"Yeh, ye smart cunt, something. But what? Wuht? Wot would'ya be?"

Me? I'll probably be a twenty three year old fuck all with a faulty eyesight corrected by too heavy, too thick glasses that my nose wouldn't handle. Grow my hair in wild ways and sport a scoliosis. Live in somebody's garage because you smell like some teens' spit. You know? Gum breath nicotine and rape me smirks. Fucking assholes who think they rule the world. We can't even manage in our monotony.

"Ah faken' hate it when yous talk sideweys."

Sideways, direct lines. Wobble, wobble. What does it matter? I love you and you love me--you do love me right?

"Yah, but wot will it be?"

Marry me.


End file.
